


It's Not Enough To Just Survive

by hovercraft



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Secret Crush, Storytelling, also i'm new to writing Arjuna be merciful, gender neutral ritsuka, really more friendship than ship as it turned out but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26353621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hovercraft/pseuds/hovercraft
Summary: Perhaps it was the nature of the two of them as legends—one story drawn to another, one legacy wanting to flip through the pages of another. Arjuna was the hero of theMahābhārata, and Scheherazade, the author ofA Thousand and One Nights.(Crackship challenge/request)
Relationships: Arjuna | Archer/Scheherazade | Caster
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	It's Not Enough To Just Survive

**Author's Note:**

> I started taking crackship requests again! Ask for them on my tumblr @firsthassan or here.
> 
> This is my first time writing Arjuna so. Heads up!!

1.

Scheherazade was… strange.

Arjuna would pass her in the hallways and she’d shrink away from him as if he’d had his bow out already and had it aimed directly at her. It wasn’t surprising, necessarily—the woman feared death above all things and found herself in a recurring cycle of life and death as a servant. He’d even recalled her fainting in the same room as King Hassan once, but the fact that she was afraid of him bothered him just a bit.

Still, he was better left in solitude, so he left it alone.

2.

He thought about her, from time to time.

She was obviously summoned at her prime, an idealized version of the story she came from. She looked every bit like the beautiful woman whose king was always on the verge of taking her neck. He remembered Agartha not with any fondness, but the Scheherazade that was summoned had no memory of the incident yet took the blame for it all the same. Her guilt upon seeing the recordings was palpable, and if she wanted to atone for it, so be it. She would reluctantly take her place on the battlefield and fend off beasts in her path, even if she claimed she was more suited to the bedchamber.

Yet, in that phrase alone, Arjuna noticed she was lying.

She was terrified of that place.

Ritsuka had once joked about Scheherazade telling them a bedtime story, but the flash of fear in her eyes was telling enough. He couldn’t imagine how miserable she must have felt in that moment, unable to perform what she was best known for. Every heroic spirit held their own traumas, carried them with them from Grail war to Grail war. Sure, it might have been pity and only that, but Arjuna decided to look out for her. Not in her face, but from a distance. Surely, if someone did, it’d benefit her. Nitocris did what she could, but her status as a Pharaoh often meant she had to posture as someone above Scheherazade’s station.

She did need a friend, but Arjuna only wanted to be by himself. It would be bad for both of them if he became personally close to her, he told himself.

Ritsuka wouldn’t have it, though. They sent the two of them on a mission of their own. Gathering materials. Arjuna had looked at Ritsuka as if their shared Master knew of his intentions, but Ritsuka gave no indication either way.

3.

He’d never noticed how distracting she could be in battle.

She rarely lifted a finger, just swung her staff and let her creations do the work for her, but that outfit—surely, she didn’t enjoy that outfit. It was just what she was summoned in, and probably had been dressed as, as a bride to the king. A scantly-wrapped present for some selfish man in the past. He wished he could say it didn’t catch his eyes, but he was more bothered for her sake than he was anything beyond that. How cold she must be, even as a heroic spirit. Surely Ritsuka wasn’t preventing her from dressing in something a little more decent?

When the last homunculus fell, he shrugged his white coat off his shoulders and placed it around hers.

“H-huh?” The sudden touch disarmed her completely, nearly dropping her staff.

“You must be cold,” He said simply. “That’s all.”

Of course they were standing in the middle of a snow field, but…

“Heroic spirits don’t get—” She began.

“Let’s keep moving.”

Not brave enough to question him, she pressed on with his white coat wrapped around her shoulders.

4.

She wasn’t completely averse to storytelling. She had been a mother, once, buried deep within her memories—so the children of Chaldea often got to listen to her tales. Most of them were curious as to why so many people of her stories weren’t summoned—but she told them that some stories were only that, stories. As charming as it would have been for Sinbad to appear, it would be troubling for her, as his author, to deal with her own creation in such a way. She likened it to Arthur Conan Doyle possibly finding his way to Chaldea.

Arjuna watched her, subtly, from the other side of the room, pretending to be immersed in a book. Her voice was soft and lilting, and her stories were told so vividly that he knew she must have memorized every single one like they were written on her Spirit Origin. It was strange, but… he almost wanted an audience with her. To listen to her as if she was spinning a story just for him.

He cursed himself when he realized that was the very thing she feared most. What a selfish desire, born out of nothing but nonsense.

He resolved to leave her alone, this time permanently.

5.

But it wasn’t so easy.

Arjuna was already a difficult man to catch the gaze of, and he kept few friends in Chaldea as it was, so his mind was helplessly occupied by her. Perhaps it was the nature of the two of them as legends—one story drawn to another, one legacy wanting to flip through the pages of another. Arjuna was _the_ hero of the _Mahābhārata_ , and Scheherazade, the author of _A Thousand and One Nights_. Arjuna could have met any hero of her design in Chaldea, but as she told the children, it would be strange for an author and creation to meet.

Was that the source of his attraction? Ugh, he told himself, don’t call it attraction. The burning curiosity of the created and a creator, even if that wasn’t _his_ creator. That’s what he could rationalize it as.

His life was detailed in millions of words, the longest epic ever written, surely something that got even Gilgamesh’s goat to know. He didn’t expect anyone to know anything about him because the ticket to entry was that many words. It kept him isolated from people who didn’t understand him, with the exception of Karna, who, let’s face it, had no business making small talk with him in Chaldea’s halls.

And yet, that secretive side of him wouldn’t permit him to get close to her.

But surely, something must be done about the curiosity he hid within him.

6.

“Caster of the Nightless City,” He announced her name before he announced himself. He couldn’t even use her name properly, so something must have gone horribly wrong with him.

“Yes? Has Master called for me?” She didn’t question him not calling her Scheherazade, she just looked up at him with those half-lidded eyes that peek just above a veil, and he cursed himself yet again, this time for a reason he couldn’t discern.

“I am calling on you myself.”

“What may I help you with, Arjuna?”

That was the question of the hour. Instead of cowardly making up some tasks for them to do together, a scheme that would surely fall apart, he instead decided to be honest.

“I find myself curious about you.”

She looked nervous, then and there, because she worried it would be about Agartha and how she would have to explain herself for her misdeeds, but Arjuna’s voice was calming.

“Don’t worry. It’s just been a long time since I’ve met a proper storyteller.”

The line between human history and oral tradition was often blurred, with some characters being blatantly fictional and some truly belonging to an age long gone, but even she knew of his legend.

“I would say it’s been a long time since I’ve met someone with a story like yours, but such people walk Chaldea’s halls every moment. O- of course, I’m not implying yours isn’t fascinating… truly, every line is a work of art.”

“You’ve read it?”

“I make it my business to know what’s in Chaldea’s library.” Even now, she was sitting on a comfortable sofa with a book splayed in her lap. “And to know the folklore of the people around me is the best way to spend my time. I… both love and hate my job as a storyteller, you know. It brings back terrible memories of when I was braver, but it’s always been my gift.”

“Did you finish it?”

“I did not. It was so detailed that I got to a point where I felt as though I was personally prying into your life. I didn’t want to press any further.”

That was a relief. Arjuna didn’t like people _interpreting_ him, trying to dig out his depths. “And you love your job as a storyteller because…?”

“Because… I love to create. There’s passion in bringing life to someone who only exists on paper, to dictate how they act, to create their motives and depths. It’s how I charmed my husband, by weaving together people out of thin air that he could believe were almost real. But… don’t ask me. If you wish to know of the burdens of storytelling, Andersen or Shakespeare could tell you more—”

“I don’t particularly care about them.”

Her expression changed just a little bit, not that it was terribly noticeable behind her veil, but he picked up on it.

“Yet you wish to hear my opinion?”

“Of course. You predate them.” He sat on the sofa next to her. “And not only that, you came up with everything in your bedchamber, while you were trying to satisfy a mad king.”

“I’m humbled. I really am. But…”

“But?”

“… work born out of survival surely is nothing compared to the work created from dedicated craftsmen.”

It bothered him to see her put herself down like this. “I think it’s worth more.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“Humans are so passionate about creation and myth that it shapes our very beings as heroic spirits,” He explained. “Even if you did it out of fear, your creations gave you second life. It etched you into the history of the world. Andersen and Shakespeare’s writing gave them the same thing, but I bet both of them would be hard-pressed to regale stories night after night to save themselves and others.”

“And second death…”

“… Do you hate it here?” He asked, gently.

“No… I am grateful for my Master. Even if I leave and lose my memories… the time I spent here lessened my fears just a bit. Surely, that’s worth its own imprint.” She laughed, and it was quietly gentle. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m the altered version of myself, and there is a braver Scheherazade to be summoned. Someone from my memories who I can’t quite recall.”

“No, I think you’re the real one,” He said, equally quiet. “Nobody would ever be the same after what you went through.”

That note… seemed to make her sad, as if being surrounded by Heroic Spirits who triumphed over their trauma or at least kept them buried had been stronger than her.

“May I tell you a story, Arjuna?”

He blinked. “I wouldn’t want to make you relive—”

“You won’t do that. I am talking to a kind prince who’s so sweetly countering my negative feelings. It’s quite a bit different from entertaining a mad king.”

“… then yes.” He didn’t think this would be so simple, and he definitely wanted to rebuke her idea of him as a kind prince, but he wasn’t going to turn it down, either. He was glad that she only knew so much of him, otherwise… she might fear him just the same.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

He relaxed in his seat, but Scheherazade… tugged on his coat. He looked at her questioningly.

“If you wish…” She sounded a little embarrassed. “You may lay your head on my lap.”

“?!”

“Of course, if that suggestion is impudent—”

He looked at her quietly, before somewhat sheepishly letting himself do as she asked. She visibly calmed down after that, as if the position was comfortable for her. As if it were familiar. Her nails threading through his hair was deliriously pleasant.

“This story begins a long time ago...”


End file.
